A Run for the Border
by Doris Hicks-Tillman
Chapter One: The Beginning
It’s October 2nd, 1998. It’s three years now; three years since my life changed forever. Three years since we heard those words that no one ever wants to hear, or thinks they will hear. "You have cancer."
I know, I know, millions of people have heard it and scores have written about it or told about it on one of our myriad of talk TV shows. Hearing those words is the beginning of a long journey, each one different in it’s own way.
But it’s three years now and I’m still in so much pain. As I left work today and realized how easily it still brings me to instant tears, I decided it’s time to write about this. I started to write this story two years ago, then the unthinkable happened and I’ve never tried it since. So I’m going to try to write it now and walk you through so that maybe you’ll understand and maybe it will help you understand someone else.
It all began on September 30, 1995. Charles had been coughing all summer; wouldn’t go to the doctor. We got back from my nephew’s wedding on the East Coast and Charles finally decided it was time to see a doctor. He’d been coughing up blood for two weeks and hadn’t told me.
He finally asked: "Will you make the appointment for me?"
We had a Saturday morning appointment. Dr. Armold took his history and listened to his chest, listened some more, tapped, listened and tapped. "Well," he said, "you’ve got something in there and I think it’s probably cancer. I can’t be sure until we have some more tests, but I’m pretty sure that’s what it is." Stunned silence, instant mental denial. Can’t be, this can’t happen to us. How can he possibly know without any tests? He should never have said that if he didn’t know. All the way home in the car….
An X-ray and CAT Scan later, it’s confirmed - a very large mass in the chest. The exact details have faded a little, but the feeling of abject terror comes back all too quickly. After three years I can still feel the terror gripping my heart like some enormous, invisible vise.
I’d had to talk Charles into the CAT scan; he didn’t know what it was and he was still trying to deny all this stuff. I stopped at the car dealership where Charles worked on my way home from work, described the test and why it was needed and he agreed. As soon as I got home, I called got it scheduled for the next day, Tuesday, October 3rd. We both took time off from work and I met him at the hospital. I can still remember standing at the parking garage and seeing his Suburban drive down 3rd St.. The test was simple enough and we both went back to work.
October 5th was his birthday; we had a weekend camping trip planned to the mountains with friends to celebrate a birthday for them too. Not going to cancel it, no reason not to go and enjoy ourselves.
Friday, October 6th was my birthday. Somewhere in the haze of the last few days I remembered Dr. Armold saying: "you have two choices, you can stay here and have standard treatment or you can go to Mexico". I had taken the day off from work and gone to Dr. Armold’s office to pick up a brochure on the hospital in Mexico. I was intrigued. Had he ever been there? What was it like? Dr. Armold told me that if he ever was diagnosed, it was the first place he’d go. It was the first I had ever heard of the American Biologics Hospital in Tijuana, Mexico. TIJUANA? Was he kidding? I’d heard horrible things about that place and he wanted me to take my Charles there? I read the brochure that afternoon and called for more information; they sure seemed nice enough.
We packed the trailer, hitched it to the Suburban, swung by to pick up our friends and headed North. Charles was tired, but doing OK. OK, that is until we got to Payson at an elevation of about 6,000 feet. We stopped for gas and Charles couldn’t stop coughing, couldn’t catch his breath. I had seen a blue, "H" sign for a hospital; we asked the station attendant for directions and went to Payson General Hospital.
The Hospital wasn’t busy and took Charles right in. I told the doctor what he would find on the X-ray; this was the first time we got to see it first hand. It was huge, but you know what? Somehow, once I saw it, I felt better. I could SEE what we were up against. I could see the enemy. Charles wanted to continue on up the mountain to continue on with our outing, but the doctor told him he would never be able to breathe if we went any further up. Not happily, he agreed to let Geoff drive us back to Phoenix. It was a quiet trip. We all tried to keep it light, but the dread was already there.
We reached Phoenix about midnight or one AM, dropped off Kay and Geoff and headed home.
We talked about Tijuana on the way home. And just before we turned onto our street I saw a brilliant shooting star straight above us, moving in the direction we were going. That was one of my first signs; in the 16 years I had lived in Phoenix, I’d never before seen a shooting star. I knew it was my sign; we were headed in the right direction.
We got back to the house about 2:00am or so and I unloaded just the stuff from the fridge. We hadn’t eaten dinner and were both wanting a little something, so I cut us each a piece of birthday cake that I’d made to celebrate the three birthdays on our camping trip.
I still remember sitting there in the dimly-lit family room. I put a candle on each of our pieces of cake and we blew them out. It was the last birthday we ever spent together. It still makes me cry.
Saturday morning came and Charles was having some difficulty breathing. It was a very long weekend. We had an appointment for a bronchoscopy on Monday morning and by this time Charles could only breathe if he was lying down. The test was started about 8:00 am, by 8:20 the doctor came out of the room and motioned to me. What follows stands out in my memory like it happened five minutes ago. He said "Mrs. Tillman, there’s nothing I can do for your husband. I couldn’t complete the test because the blockage is too severe. Take him home, make him comfortable, Hospice comes the same day you call." To this day, I can remember standing in front of that doctor and feeling as though each word was hammering me down into the ground little by little. I felt like I was being crushed. This was my husband he was talking about. Nine days prior to this, all I knew was that he had a cough; now he was being given a death sentence.
You see, there’s something else you don’t know about this picture. Charles was a tall, strapping, handsome man. He hadn’t been to a doctor in 30 years; he’d had the flu once since I’d known him in 11 years. He was the strong one. He was the one who could work 12 hours a day doing hard, physical work and come home with a smile on his face.
He was my Charles. What do you mean "Take him home and Hospice comes the same day you call?"
I told the Dr. about my plans to take Charles to Mexico, because we’d already decided that we weren’t going for the standard U.S. cancer treatments. We had spent the weekend talking about it and decided that we would have all the tests done here, with all the sophisticated equipment and then go to Mexico with the results. You can imagine the doctor’s reaction. He spent about 20 minutes telling me why it wouldn’t work, drawing diagrams, telling me how they would take my money and I’d get nothing in return, warning me about how careful I needed to be.
I got Charles home and into the house and he immediately fell into a deep sleep – still under the influence of the anesthesia of the test. It gave me time to think and get on the telephone.
I hadn’t told Charles anything about what the Dr. had said to me; I didn’t know how to tell him. I waited until he woke up about 3:30pm and then I told him. I can still see his face.
The next thing I had to ask him was if he would agree for me to ask a friend of his to drive us to Mexico. The doctor had already told me that he would never be able to fly; he wouldn’t be able to breathe. Charles agreed that I could ask Sam to drive us. It meant that our secret was out, now people at the dealership where he worked would know. I called Sam and explained the story; his answer? "Do you want to leave tonight? I’m ready. When do we leave?".
In the next 24 hours I think I must have made and received 50 phone calls: the hospital in Mexico to see if they had a bed available and would they hold it, reservations in the motor lodge/mobile home park, calls to family to let them know we were leaving the country, my boss, Charles’ boss. Every phone call was exhausting. For some it was the first they were hearing the news; I heard their shocked responses, their offers of help and prayers. I received calls from people who had been to American Biologics and told me of the wonderful treatment; I was gaining resolve, but still scared out of my wits. This was my husband, my partner and now he had to depend entirely on me.
I tried to sleep that night, Monday, October 9th; my mind could not rest. Was I crazy? I was going to take my husband to another country, a poor, third world country for cancer treatment? What was I thinking?
After Charles was resting comfortably, I got up and stole out to the family room. The American Biologics brochure was all I had to cling to. I read it over and over. Read about the treatments, the facilities; I looked at the pictures of the doctors. They looked like I could trust them. I couldn’t let Charles see how afraid I was.
Tuesday, October 10th. I rose early; lots to do. I went in to work and cleaned up some files. I had no idea if or when I would ever be back. I drove home after a stop at the health food store; it was time to prepare the trailer for the trip.
Charles was sick that evening and couldn’t hold down his dinner, he was exhausted and scared. His son and grandchildren came to say goodbye; I made them promise not to upset Charles and to be positive. I assured them he would be OK.
Hours later it was finally time to try to rest before the long trip on Wednesday. Once again, I could not rest. I got up again and sat reading that brochure over and over. Was I doing the right thing? Was I going on a wild goose chase? I had to keep thinking about that star.
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